What's The Score?
by ValorieDevore
Summary: England didn't want this anymore, he didn't want score-keeping and pain, he wanted love. When it comes to France though, is it too much to ask for? Especially when the Frenchman seems to care only of conquests? This summary makes the story sound deep but it's probably not. Will soon be a multi-chapter fic i promise.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I'm a terrible person. I'm really proud of this, but at the same time I'm nervous because I don't really write in this style or genre or whatever it would be called. I usually do angst or fluff, this is a little darker than fluff and not as sad as angst so. Yeah, i'm nervous and rambling and sorry.

Warnings: Implied relations of the sexual type.

Disclaimer: If Hetalia were mine, I'd own the world, and instead of a circle, I'd have you draw a square. :)

* * *

England felt the hand run along his back as he buried his face deep into his arms on the table. Beside him lay an empty bottle of wine and two glasses long forgotten after the first few servings. He leaned into the touch, mentally reprimanding himself. He pushed the hand roughly away. There was a small little French sounding chuckle. He felt warm air tickling against his ear.

How had this started again? Who had started this?

"Come now Angleterre, do not act as though this is not what you wanted."

England stood up to yell at France to attack him, but he was pushed easily by the Frenchman into the wall. Arthur hissed in pain, and Francis couldn't help but smile at the wince on his face. Francis ran his hand into Arthur's hair gently at first, feeling the soft strands and then pulled at those soft locks exposing Arthur's neck more. Francis placed his lips on the sensitive skin and grinned at the shudder it caused the Englishman. He bit gently and was rewarded with a rough push.

Arthur growled and stormed upstairs, kicking stuff, and knocking things over.

France walked after him after he heard a resounding slam of a door.

He stood in front of the door smirking.

He knocked politely.

"How many times is this Arthur? 22-20? I'm in the lead if I recall correctly, and of course, I am never wrong."

"I thought we weren't keeping score anymore?"

"Arthur come on now. It's you and me; did you really think that either of us would stop keeping score? Sure, we'd stop announcing it like we used to but, it's us. We'd never let the other best us would we?"

"No I suppose not."

"Now let me in." Francis cooed

"Francis," the voice hesitated "W-we can't do this anymore." Arthur whispered.

"Why not?" Francis turned the doorknob and found it was open. The room was dark but a figure sat on the bed hunched over, apparently unaware the door had been opened

"Well for one, this is wrong, this is supposed to be soft, and warm, and sweet, this is supposed to be love, not sex," came the hoarse response. Arthur was sitting on the edge of the bed head in his hands.

Francis softly walked over. Arthur felt the extra weight of his lover on the bed. He felt hands go up to his hands and pull them away, he saw cobalt eyes stare deeply into his own emeralds. He felt soft lips against his own, sickly sweet, he felt arms protectively wind around his waist, he felt the back of his head hitting the bed, he felt the rough tickle of stubble along his jaws-line. His scent was intoxicating. It made him dizzy and made him want to let go of everything, and give up all over again.

So, England stopped thinking about it, he stopped thinking of the thousands of reasons flying through his mind telling him to push away Francis, to say no, to get the Frenchman off of him, to get the Frenchman to stop unbuttoning his shirt and later on to get Francis out of his pants.

"We shouldn't do this Francis." Arthur said before feeling his lips caught in another passionate kiss.

"Oh really mon cher?"

"Yes, Francis, we should stop." Arthur said before moaning for another kiss.

"I thought you said to stop Cherie?"

"Ngh-yes, stop right now." Arthur said as his hands flew up to undo the silk tie on francis's neck.

The Frenchman chuckled and helped Arthur remove his own shirt. Arthur ran his hands along Francis's bare chest, stating reasons why they should stop, all of which Francis laughed at.

"I don't want this Francis." Arthur said confidently before being reduced to whimpering desperately as Francis ceased the attack of kissing and nibbling on his neck.

"Arthur," Francis said in a sincere voice. It sounded almost afraid "I-if you do not want this, simply push me away, and I will stop." Francis said looking into Arthur's eyes with such sincerity, with such honesty. He was making a genuine offer.

And that is how Arthur found himself with both hands on Francis's chest, on the verge of pushing away before wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer than should've been possible.

"Okay, fine, the absolute last time." He said crossing his heart.

"You've said that too many times to count mon Cherie."

"I know but I'll only be with you this last time."

All too soon it was over, all too soon, it was gone. And Arthur was left lying under Francis, stuck with him like that unicorn tattoo on his left ankle.

Arthur sighed, feeling so stupid. He looked at the dozing Frenchman and couldn't believe how stupid he had been the night before. How could he have been so stupid as to have crawled back to the frog? He hated himself so much, hated himself for all his stupidity and weakness and being unable to push the man away.

He glanced once again at the man lying on top of him. He looked so beautiful in the just barely there sunlight, golden locks framing his face. Arthur bit his lip as he ran a hand through it.

Last night, had been different, it had been soft, and slow, and focused. It hadn't been a night to see who could cause the other more pain, it had been a night to see how much pleasure could be produced. And so Arthur felt, satisfied, happy. Well, content at the least.

Suddenly the Frenchman stirred. Arthur stopped his hand and watched.

"Bonjour Arthur," He purred before leaning up to kiss Arthur. Arthur winced at the touch, his lips still felt swollen.

"Hello Francis."

"So I believe the score is now 23-20 non?" the Frenchman said smirking at his latest conquest.

That was when Arthur realized, it was just another conquest, just another contest to see who would fall prey first. And he had lost. With that knowledge came a flood of hurt and pain. Those sweet nothings whispered last night of undying love were just that, nothings. Those soft kisses that caused bruised lips were just that, bruises. Everything was a lie, to bed him. And it had worked. Arthur felt like dying and heading straight for hell.

"Cross my heart and hope to die, that was the last time you bed me Francis Bonnefoy." Arthur growled.

"We'll see mon cher," Francis chuckled.

* * *

Author's Note: Did you like it? I hope so. Review if you have time.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis flirted with the airline attendant as she led him to his seat. She smiled graciously at him but said nothing else. She was used to the pillow talk one could say.

Francis opened the screen to his window and looked out at the runway. He had never had such a large lead. They'd always kept a tight rein on one another. There was really only one rule, and it was how they based the points: whoever convinces the other gets the point.

You could convince anyway you wanted. You could guilt trip, you could pay, you could flirt, anyway you could think of you could use.

Well, Francis supposed there were two rules, you weren't allowed to force anyone into doing anything.

Francis remembered the last night. Everything had gone well, although it had not gone the way he had expected. Actually, it'd gone the complete opposite of what was expected.

Maybe that was a good thing.

'No,' Francis told himself, 'No,'

Sex is sex is points is leads. He needed leads and that means he needed points and so he needed to seduce Arthur. There was nothing else. There was only the glory of winning, of dominating of—

Of conquest.

He'd been weary these last few times. Arthur was becoming different. Francis realized he'd been more affectionate, softer, more willing, less rough.

It could only be the beginnings of one thing. A brutal reminder of the past they once shared together. An cruel memory of their supposed undying love for one another in the years of their medieval romances. Before Elizabeth the White Queen, before Joan the faithful warrior, long before any of the first loves they had for humans, they had held love for one another. Long before they'd understood the rasping of lust for others, they'd felt the whispers of sweet love for one another.

Arthur was truly Francis's first love and if it had not been for Joan, he probably could have said his only love.

However, time had gone by, Joan had come and for Arthur, his beautiful virginal Queen Elizabeth.

Arthur would regret his times with Francis no matter how pure and sweet and loving they'd been, because those would be the reasons Elizabeth would only love him from afar. Francis would regret ever having fallen for Joan because the petty jealousy it had brought into Arthur's heart had been enough to make him ignore the only chance Arthur had to save her life.

They had begun to hate each other for all the bad that had befallen them because of one another. Francis was blamed for Saratoga, Arthur was blamed for the guillotine to Francis's kings head.

All Francis could ever muster up for Arthur was lust, and he had been so sure it was all Arthur could as well.

But the growing softness to every passionate touch had Francis wondering if maybe, just maybe Arthur was beginning to feel once more the lonely echoes of a longing so old languages had died since the feelings had been born.

Maybe everything was going to change now and Francis would find himself losing his lead and falling behind but not minding because the soft kisses and whispers and gentle touches distracted him from the goal, distracted him from winning, distracted him from conquest.

He found himself thinking, it might be nice to let go. It might be nice to wake up every morning in a familiar bed like he had this morning. It might be nice being awoken by a lover's gentle touch. It might be nice to stay in bed. It might be nice to simply hold one another, no strings or ulterior motives attached. It might be nice to simply be loved and to love. It might be nice.

Hell, it had been nice, once upon a time when Arthur and Francis had woken that way each morning in each other's rooms in the easy morning light forgetting duties and alliances and work that had to be done and instead focusing solely on each other and their needs.

It had been nice to be so dreamy each and every day without the constant merit of winning looming overhead.

It had been nice, even that morning when Francis had only just cracked his eyes open and there before him was a childish almost innocent face looking terrified of having awoken it's beholder. There was Arthur, biting his lip, slightly flushed, hair bedraggled, and fingers recoiled as if terrified at having defiled a masterpiece. Francis could imagine in that moment before reality returned that they were back in a stone castle and they could stay that way all day.

But no, he told himself. No. Francis did not want anything to change. Things happen for a reason, no one may know it, or it may not be obvious at first, but things happen for a reason, and falling out of love with Arthur and instead lusting after each conquest, not after Arthur, but after the conquest, it had all happened for a reason.

'I believe that 23-20, non?' he remembered saying, breaking the hope in Arthur's eyes, the hope that betrayed his desire for things to change.

Francis hated change. There were only a few steady things in his life, the various women he had met, wooed and slept with, and Arthur. The change to might be nice, last night had been nice, but to give up the only thing that was stable in his life, since he may as well admit that women were only stable in their instability in his life, was lunacy. He could not do it.

He knew eventually England would figure out that Francis would not fall into the traps of love again like he had. He knew England would be devastated, heartbroken, dejected that his love was not returned. But, he also knew that once Arthur figured this out, the Englishman would only steel his heart against such emotions and never let them come in the way again, and everything would remain as if nothing had happened, and Arthur had not fallen back in love.

Francis convinced himself that this was what he could do to protect Arthur from any more unnecessary pain.

Francis did not love Arthur, but rather the idea of how nice it would be to love, just as he did not lust for Arthur, but for victory over him.

And Arthur? Arthur would remain at home. Arthur would hurry into the bathroom and turn on the shower and he would wait until he heard the click of locks in the front hall signaling someone was leaving before he made himself step in. He'd sit against the walls of the shower stall as sobs wracked his small body and he'd promise himself over and over again that he'd never do it again. That this was it. He could not do this anymore. This was the final straw. Never again.

And he'd get out of the shower and draw all the blinds and he'd hole himself away. And that may be when he would realize he did not want Francis, simply the victory, just like he did not want Francis's touch, simply the pain it induced. Sometimes it's all anyone really wants, to remind us of how human we truly are.


End file.
